


Undertriage

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-26
Updated: 2011-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-20 18:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is sick. Sam and Cas take care of him. At least, they try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undertriage

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 6x14. Written for the spn_foxhole Team Free Will Free-for-all Fic and Art Fest to the prompt _Dean is sick. Sam and Cas take care of him. At least, they try._ Thank you to the lovely smilla02 for the beta.

Sam would've thought that he and Dean could catch a break, after everything, and after that freaky hunt gone wrong, the Impala possessed, and a girl dead.

Plus there was Dean acting like he wasn't missing anything, like Sam didn't still catch him with his finger poised on the speed-dial for Lisa's number, like Dean didn't go unfocused at moments, frowning before he twitched his shoulders, as if he could physically shake it all off.

Apparently they weren't done being the universe's butt-wipes, though. Stopping an apocalypse wasn't enough, because this simple hunt, this straight-forward, something right out of a page in Dad's journal job in the backwoods of North Carolina turned out to be another finger-jab of a reminder how much hunting could suck.

* * *

On the drive to NC, Sam started talking about old hunts, people they'd saved.

"Stop it," Dean said finally, when Sam mentioned Andrea and Lucas.

"Stop what?" The windows were rolled down, wind rushing in so that it was a little hard to talk.

"I appreciate the astounding subtlety of your pep talk, but it's not necessary." Dean's thumb twitched against the steering wheel, once, twice. "I'm fine."

"You're fine." Sam knew how much dry cynicism was in his voice from long practice. This was only the 1,237th time they'd had this kind of conversation, and Sam bit his tongue so he wouldn't snap out, _aren't we past this yet?_

A year without Dean or his own soul, and Sam couldn't even remember most of it, and then months with Dean that Sam couldn't remember, but Castiel had told him things, and the part about being with Dean but not remembering was the worst. Being with Dean but not himself, and now wondering how much he'd added to the many dents and bruises and cracks in his brother. Sam glanced over at Dean again and then he had to turn away, towards the fields sliding by, because the flicker of a memory pushed at Sam's mind. The wall twitched, a warning pressure, and he let his mind go blank.

* * *

Barghests didn't usually hunt in packs. The one they tracked to the clearing seemed to be alone.

It wasn't.

"This _sucks,_ " Dean muttered as they raised their shotguns, standing back to back.

* * *

They never prayed to Castiel unless it was life-or-death, end-of-the-world business. At least, they tried not to. Last time Sam had seen the angel, he'd looked wrecked -- more wrecked that usual, that is, because Cas by default always seemed like a businessman who hadn't slept in 36 hours, had missed his flight, lost his luggage, lost the account, and then got into a fight with muggers who were surprised when the businessman kicked their asses from here to next Sunday.

Four barghests were not a reason to pray to Castiel.

Sometimes Sam wondered what would happen if they prayed to him and when he showed, they said "hi, how's it going, how's the war in heaven?" Sam figured Castiel wouldn't show up at all if they tried it.

* * *

Dean covered him as Sam reloaded, his jaw looking as if it were clenched so tight his molars might crack. The nearest big dog-creature snarled and Dean fired, but the thing darted aside with preternatural power and Dean barely grazed it. Some of the shot hit a tree, shards of bark flying.

Outwardly there was nothing off about Dean -- he fought and held his ground like he always did, but Sam noticed his shoulder twitch as the third dog circled closer, exposing its teeth, and he caught the slight tremble in Dean's finger as it moved back to the trigger.

* * *

Yeah, so dire, world-ending emergencies only was the unspoken Castiel policy.

They soldiered on when Dean froze and lost his focus as one of the dogs growled and sprang. They soldiered on as Sam shouted his brother's name, moving too slow to get to Dean in time before the dog was on him, slamming Dean against the tree. They soldiered on as Sam fired and Dean kicked the beast in the chest, but not before its claws tore through the denim on his thighs. Soldiered on as Dean yelled in pain and Sam fired again while Dean got to his feet, staggering a little before he shot another one of dogs in the face while Sam reloaded.

They soldiered on just fine as they found a ravine, threw the corpses in, and covered them up with brush. Dean limped all the way back to the car, refusing help until the last quarter mile when he put his hand on Sam's shoulder and kept it there, fingers clenched tightly into the soft flesh around Sam's bones.

Soldiered on that night when the scratches on Dean's thigh became inflamed and Dean complained about being too hot and started to shiver.

* * *

"Here." Sam handed Dean an antibiotic and a cup of water.

"Look, it's no biggie, okay?" Dean held the pill in his palm, popped it into his mouth, and swallowed the water in loud, hungry gulps. He emptied the cup. "It's just a scratch."

"Oh, tell me you did not just say _it's just a scratch._ You're hilarious." Sitting on the other bed in their motel room (which had a 1950's look, with a loud geometric pattern on the rug and orange chairs) Sam shoved his fingers through his hair while he worked out the best approach to take. At least Dean was lying down. He'd put on sweatpants and his softest, most faded Zeppelin t-shirt and he'd only gotten up to pee, so that was something. "We should see what your temperature is."

"Quit fussing, Dad." A light film of sweat shone of Dean's forehead and his voice went rougher.

"Quit being as asshole, Dean."

* * *

It only took twenty-one minutes of arguing to get Dean to put the thermometer in his mouth.

103.5.

"Well, it could've been worse," Sam muttered, and handed Dean the Tylenol.

* * *

At two in the morning, Dean started to struggle and shout. When Sam scrambled out of bed and grabbed Dean's shoulders, he found his shirt was damp with sweat. Dean's eyes were open but not focused on Sam -- he looked at something through Sam, beyond him.

When Sam turned there was nothing there but the dresser and the mirror, reflecting Sam's startled, frightened face.

"Easy, Dean," Sam said, and eased Dean back against the pillows.

* * *

"I think you need a hospital."

"No hospital."

"Dean--"

"They won't know what to do. They'll treat me for rabies or tetanus or some crap like that and give me all the wrong shit. Could make me worse."

"But--"

"No hospital."

"Shit. Eat some more ice, then."

"Hate ice."

"You can't hate ice. Ice is...it's ice. There's always ice. It's just...ice."

* * *

At three-fifteen, Sam thudded hard against the dresser, knocking books and the ice bucket over, so there was plenty of ice on the floor, but not in Dean, which was where Sam had planned for it to go before Dean had started thrashing again in the grip of a fever dream.

* * *

Sam sat on the edge of Dean's bed, elbows on his knees. His side still ached a little from when he'd hit the dresser.

For now, Dean was in a restless sleep, lying on his side with the blankets pulled up tightly over his shoulders. He said things, low and nearly unintelligible, protests and refusals.

Then Dean muttered _Alastair,_ and cold sweat broke on the back of Sam's neck as the room tilted. Sam put his head down on his knees, breathed slow and deep, his fingers shaking as he pressed them hard against his legs, trying to steady himself. The barrier at the back of his mind quivered, promising heat and flame, a pressure in his head. Sam bit down on his lip so hard the metallic tang of blood flooded against his tongue.

"Cas." Sam kept his eyes closed against the spinning. "Hey, Cas, we know you're really busy with a civil war and all but we're kind of in tro--"

The flap of wings sounded before Sam finished the last few words. Sam raised his head and opened his eyes, finding Castiel standing in front of him.

He touched Sam's forehead and the dizziness stopped.

 

"Hello, Sam."

Castiel had a harried expression, like he'd been in the middle of sixteen things at once while someone yelled at him. His tie hung the wrong way facing out.

A shot of relief went through Sam. There wasn't much calm or steady about Castiel; he made no sense a lot of the time for a whole lot of reasons but he had grown familiar, he fixed things, and Sam kind of liked the guy.

After Lucifer rose, Sam had given up praying to any deity, but there was still a Castiel.

"Hey," Sam said.

Castiel frowned, looking down at Dean. "What happened?" He said sharply.

"It was a hunt. A pack of barghests. One of them scratched him. He's got a high fever, he's been hallucinating, and he said no hospitals. I'll force him to go if I have to but he said they'll give him the wrong drugs anyway -- he's right. It's a supernatural illness. His fever's high and --" Sam realized his voice had gone shaky.

"You were not well either, when I arrived," Castiel said gravely.

"The wall in my head, it -- maybe because Dean started talking about Hell. I dunno, something just...I dunno." Sam reached over and tucked the blanket more firmly into place over Dean's shoulder. "It doesn't matter. Cas, please, can you --"

Castiel moved closer to the bed, standing over Dean. He reached out a hand, not purposefully in his usual way, but curling the back of his fingers against Dean's forehead. Dean stirred but didn't wake up. Then Castiel's hand moved again and he deliberately pressed two fingers flat against Dean's skin. The room went hushed, a calm before a storm, seconds seeming to move more slowly, and then Castiel drew his hand away. Dean's breathing slowed and he looked less flushed, tension easing out of his face.

"I've removed the infection," Castiel said. "He should be fine in an hour or so."

So exhausted his bones hurt, Sam only nodded.

"I think...I'll stay a while. To make sure." Castiel sounded as if he wasn't sure he should allow himself, or wondered whether it was allowed.

"Yes, of course," Sam said quickly.

He went to the dresser, opened Dean's bottle of whiskey, and poured himself three fingers' worth. Sam swallowed it down fast.

"Something else is bothering you."

"Yeah. No. It's just that Dean used to have nightmares like that a lot, after you pulled him out of Hell. But not for a while." Sam poured himself more whiskey. "At least, as far as I know." The words twisted bitter on his tongue. "I don't know how long it's been because I wasn't there for a year, and then I was with Dean again but I still wasn't me, so it's not like I would've noticed or cared without my soul, and I can't remember any of it anyway, so how do I know?"

"Sam." Castiel had a look on his face like someone had kicked the very last puppy in the world. Sam had no idea why Castiel should look all that torn up about it, but Cas was unpredictable.

Two swallows and another cup of whiskey was gone, burning down Sam's chest.

"We were hunting these dog things, barghests. Dean used to like dogs." It was easier to talk than to let the quiet be. "Not like I did, begging for one of my own all the time when we were growing up, but he thought dogs were great, never was afraid of them. Not even attack dogs. But ever since Lilith's hounds, even the little ones make him tense up." Sam wanted more whiskey but didn't take it.

While Sam leaned against the dresser, Castiel went to stand by Dean's bedside, back straight, sentry-like. He made the room seem smaller.

* * *

They waited together, the awkwardness slowly draining away from the silence. The faint background tickle of strange energy became noticeable. It was probably always there with Castiel, but something that Sam picked up on only if he tried, kind of like the way the hum of a refrigerator was often inaudible except very late at night.

* * *

An hour later, Dean's fever was still running high.

"I don't understand," Castiel snapped. "I took the infection from him."

Dean struggled to rise from the bed, shirt stained dark with sweat, as Sam pushed down on his legs. With what looked like very little effort at all, Castiel grabbed Dean's shoulders and pinned him. Dean struggled, got one leg free, and kicked Sam in the stomach with his bare feet.

Leaning down, Castiel spoke low into Dean's ear. It sounded like Enochian, although Sam couldn't be sure. Castiel repeated the phrase a few times. Dean clutched at the lapels of Castiel's trenchcoat with one hand, the fingers of his other hand going tight around Castiel's wrist, as if Castiel could anchor him, keep him from getting swallowed down by something. Castiel repeated the phrase one more time; Dean stopped struggling and slumped against him.

The gentleness Castiel used as he eased Dean into place against the pillows and pulled up the blanket made Sam's chest tighten.

* * *

"Thank you," Sam said, and Castiel's eyes widened.

* * *

As the darkness outside paled with predawn, Dean's fever broke.

At first Sam had been sitting on Dean's bed, Castiel in a chair by the window. Too exhausted to move to his own bed, Sam stretched out next to Dean. He didn't even bother kicking off his shoes.

Sam lay on his side watching the even rise and fall of Dean's breathing under the blanket.

* * *

Sam woke lying on his back to hear Dean and Castiel arguing, the room bright with morning sun. Castiel was still in the chair while Dean sat propped up against the pillows.

"Maybe your mojo malfunctioned. It's okay, buddy, happens to lots of guys. So I hear."

"That's very unlikely," Castiel said calmly. "I sensed the infection going out of you. I wasn't mistaken. This is very odd."

"Hey." Sam said up, rubbing his hand over his face, and turned towards Dean. "How're you feeling?"

"Like a piano fell on me." Dean made a disgusted noise. "Not too bad otherwise."

Sam rolled off the bed. "Good. I'll get you some breakfast."

"This is very puzzling." Castiel got up and paced to the window and back, a contradiction to his calm voice. "I know I healed him. I know it." His forehead creased, voice growing clipped.

"Cas, it's okay, I believe you." Sam had the urge to pat him on the shoulder.

"If Cas did heal me, why didn't my fever break sooner?" Dean reached for the remote and turned on the TV. He flipped through channels, stopping at some old black and white monster movie with mummies.

"I think I know why," Sam said softly, under the noise of the TV. He'd done a shit-ton of reading after Dean had gotten out of Hell, and not just about angels and demons.

Dean didn't seem to hear him, his eyes on the TV screen.

"I have to go." Castiel stood at the foot of Dean's bed. "I'm glad you're feeling better," he said, simple and direct, with a tiny hesitation before it as if he'd had to screw up the courage to say it.

Looking up from the TV, Dean met Castiel's gaze, and then Castiel vanished with a stirring of air.

"Rough night, huh," Dean said, after staring for a few moments at the spot where Castiel had been standing.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Your fever was pretty high. Also, you kicked me. More than once."

"Sorry, man," Dean said, corner of his mouth quirking with regret.

"Cas did save you. If he hadn't wiped out the infection, it would've been worse."

"I was kind of out of it. But I remember some." Dean swallowed hard, and turned back to the movie.

* * *

After breakfast, Dean was up and getting dressed, some of his usual restless, taut-string energy coming back. He started talking about check-out, where they could find the next hunt.

"Dean." Sam put his hand to Dean's chest, stopping his momentum as he moved around the room, packing up. The cotton of his shirt was a little too cool, as if the skin beneath was clammy, and Dean's walk was a little unsteady, freckles dark against his pale face.

All it took was a very slight push to get Dean to sit down on the bed, and Dean blinked, like he was startled at how easily Sam had done that.

"Just rest for now, okay?"

Giving Sam a suspicious eye, like Sam had suggested he eat a live scorpion because it was good for him, Dean scooted up the bed until he leaned against the headboard. He folded his arms over his chest. "There. You happy? I'm resting."

The tension in the muscles of Sam's neck and shoulders unclenched.

Sometimes they just needed a break.

~end


End file.
